


Building Morale

by salamandererg



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage Fantasies, Canon Era, Character Death: Eponine, For France!, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Seriously Written Crack, Submissive Fantasies, Voyeurism, barricade - Freeform, gagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 01:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19713220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamandererg/pseuds/salamandererg
Summary: The mood behind the barricade is somber, Enjolras’ friends are covered in blood of their own or another’s and mud.  It feels too much like a tomb already, something must be done to restore courage.Enjolras has never wanted to get down on his knees before another man, but he’ll do anything for France.





	Building Morale

When Enjolras goes to his knees in front of Joly, the other man immediately begs him to stand up. 

“This is not necessary, my faith in you and the revolution is strong. It requires no extra coaxing.”

Enjolras shakes his head, “It is my pleasure to do this for you,” He lowers his voice in confidence, “I do not wish to see our morale dip lower than it is.”

Joly wrinkles his eyebrows, a frown pulling at his lips, “With the excitement, I do not think I will...be able to stand at your attention.”

Grantaire lets out a loud bark of laughter, causing the others to do the same. It is an appealing sound and makes Enjolras' heart soar. He looks around at his friends' faces, glad that they can still laugh and sound like the young men they are. Even Joly ducks his head and chuckles, not seeming too embarrassed, though his cheeks are quite red.

“You will manage fine,” Bossuet slaps Joly on the shoulder with a smile and wink as their friends’ chuckles die down.

Enjolras stares up at him from the mud, the ground is cold on his knees, but Joly’s thigh is warm where his fingers rest lightly, not avoiding the smears of blood. The other man takes a deep breath and nods, sensing Enjolras’ need for permission.

“I quite doubt that I will be able to—”

“You may stop me at any time,” Enjolras reassures him, “I seek to offer comfort, and that only.”

Joly lets out a shaky breath, undoing his trousers with equally shaky fingers. Enjolras waits patiently, letting the full ramifications of what he has offered to do hit him in waves as each button is passed through its hole.

Joly does manage, despite his nerves, there is a slight, but definite bulge in the fabric, before taking himself in hand. He strokes a few times and begins filling out even more, before Enjolras stops him, covering Joly’s hand with his own and resumes the stroking himself.

Enjolras, at this moment, lets his hand move up and down more in exploration than as a means to accomplish his goal. He takes in the texture, the girth, the length, it was warmer than Enjolras had imagined it would be. He had often thought of it in the abstract, a thing to be ignored and hear others joking about in a bawdry setting, he had forgotten that it was part of the body, as warm and strong and soft as any other part could be. As his tongue gently licks the head, he is suddenly aware that no one is talking, that the surrounding area has gone quiet. Except for a short burst of air from Joly’s mouth that ruffles the stray curls of his hair.

It has the effect of a second wind, and Enjolras suddenly remembers that this was not his intention, he had a purpose with this action and it was not to study or experience. Enjolras licks his lips and opens his mouth.

“Mind your teeth,” Joly says in a hurried breath, words tripping out of his mouth in a blur, as if they were something he’s had to say often. Enjolras deems that observation as none of his business, as is the grimace from Bossuet he catches out of the corner of his eye.

“I did not intended to eat it,” Enjolras says instead, offhandedly, not expecting the chuckles that came after. “But your worry is noted.”

Enjolras opens his mouth once more, hesitantly touches the tip with his tongue and though the tang makes him wince, closes his mouth around the head. Joly’s hand squeezes his shoulder, but Enjolras pays it no mind, focusing completely on his task. He lets out a low groan as soon as his lips fold around Joly, suckling the deceptively soft skin and running his tongue along the length of it to coax Joly’s doubts from deep out of his body. Enjolras can feel a similar stirring in himself, small bubbles of it spreading throughout his body, but he ignores them for the time being. Joly does not deserve his halved attention, not when the liberty of France is at stake.

There is an awkwardness to Joly, as well as Enjolras’ movements, times when Joly pulls too hard or Enjolras has to stop to take a breath as if he had forgotten that oxygen was relevant to life. They are both distracted momentarily as Bossuet gasps a name as he strokes himself, releasing trails of white that splatter delicately on the ground. Enjolras blinks in confusion as Bossuet chuckles breathlessly in apology. Enjolras is surprised by Joly’s climax when it comes soon after, it startles him so much that he pulls off and lets the warm liquid coat his cheek instead. The feeling of it discourages him, that he could not swallow his friend’s doubts like he had been planning, like he had been hoping to do.

He is about to apologize to the both of them, having not accomplished the mission he had set for himself, but stops when he looks at their faces. Joly’s smile is blinding and Enjolras understands that even though he was not able to take in his friend’s burdens, they were released all the same. Joly’s face is flushed a healthy red and Bossuet’s eyes have regained their shine as he looks at Joly, and Enjolras prefers this much more. Once Joly catches sight of what he has done to Enjolras’ face, though, he immediately begins searching for a handkerchief that is not wet or stained, his hands fluttering around as he pats down his pockets. Enjolras takes them into his own hands, gripping them tightly.

“I shouldn’t have, I must,” Joly starts, trying to gesture, but Enjolras cuts him off.

“No, I am pleased to have the evidence of your doubts being released made so apparent on my person. I wish for them to remain as a call to arms for all those whose belief is waning, a reminder that hope in the revolution will not be so easily extinguished.”

Joly swallows heavily, sparing a short glance to Bossuet beside him who nods his head encouragingly. In this exchange, Joly seems to be convinced, though his hands still make an abortive movement to grab Bossuet’s handkerchief from his pocket instead in one last effort.

The feeling of Joly’s warm hands still linger on Enjolras’ skin as he backs away. The heat of Joly’s doubts coating his face as he released them only serves to prove that they can still be counted as alive, that they have not yet given up and are prepared to fight. The ache in his jaw and the tears that suddenly spring to his eyes are Enjolras’ own proof that he is still alive.

Enjolras begins his way around his circle of friends after finishing with Joly and Bossuet, crawling to the next place on his knees, soaking his pants and coating them in mud. He is shivering when he comes to Combeferre and his fingers tremble so much that the other man must undo his trousers himself. The quiet behind their barricade has slowly melted away with the releases Enjolras left in his wake, his friends are starting to sound more like the joyous students they are and less like men who know they are only the walking dead. Holding onto that thought is what fills Enjolras with an appreciation for the close group of people he was so lucky to find and able to call his friends. They put their faith in him on this day, trusting him with the accomplishment of their ideals and their lives, the least Enjolras can do is make sure that conviction is not dampened. It can be renewed and rise from the mud and broken chairs and dead bodies that surround them, as long as there is still a pearl of hope that Enjolras can dig up from underneath their doubts.

Kneeling in front of Combeferre, Enjolras is brought closer to a member of the circle that he had been avoiding thinking about, the one whose conviction, if he still has any, would be buried under gallons of wine that Enjolras would surely drown in before reaching. Grantaire’s figure is now just out of the corner of his eye and Enjolras spares him only a quick glance before bringing his concentration back to Combeferre. His friend is watching him fondly, a small smile on his face, and it creates a more familiar intimacy that was lacking with Joly and Bossuet. Enjolras pulls away to give him a small smile of his own, before gently bending down to kiss the head of his friend's member. He ignores the small inhale of breath from Grantaire from his right, concentrating on how soothing Combeferre's hands are in his hair.

Combeferre's thumbs stroke his temples and detangle the tightest ringlets slowly, reverently. The taste is heady on his tongue and there is a terrible want stirring in Enjolras that makes him take more into his mouth until it touches the back of his throat, bringing tears to his eyes.

Combeferre pulls Enjolras off slowly, wiping the tears as Enjolras shudders and clenches on the unsettled feeling in his stomach.

“Breathe,” Combeferre whispers, bending down and kissing the apples of his cheeks chastely.

Enjolras coughs a few more times, letting Combeferre whisper soothingly to him until he has calmed enough to try again. This time he starts more slowly, letting his mouth patiently sink lower and lower where he can accustom himself to the depth, instead of taking it all at once. He deems his previous attempt as greedy and flushes at the thought, though he is not quite sure if it is from shame and embarrassment or something else. Combeferre’s hands are back in his hair and that comforts him a great deal more than he thought it would.

Combeferre finishes, and much like with Joly, Enjolras is willing to swallow, but cannot quite manage it. His face is marked again and he hesitantly licks what he can reach, thinking maybe if he can get used to the taste he will manage it the next time. Enjolras declines Combeferre’s offer to wipe his face off and shakily rises to his feet. He is overheated now and he is sore, but he has more work to do.

Enjolras has been going in a circle which means Grantaire, lounging the closest to Combeferre on what seems to be an actual chair with a bottle firmly in his grip, is next. Grantaire _should_ be next, but Enjolras can't justify bringing himself to his knees for someone who had no faith in the revolution in the first place, who has no inspiration to draw.

“Come to black my boots, Enjolras?”

For someone who will make a mockery of his efforts. Enjolras is feeling too raw at the moment to endure that.

He stops in front of Grantaire, assessing. The other man has sat up from where he was sprawled earlier, no slouch to his shoulders, and has spread his legs apart just slightly enough to not appear too eager, though the effect is marred by the bulge in the man's trousers where Enjolras’ eyes linger. Grantaire swallows loudly when Enjolras drags his gaze up. Enjolras glares, feeling righteous even when covered in blood, mud, and come.

“My efforts would be wasted on someone who did not have faith to begin with.”

Grantaire smiles wryly, “Perhaps I will be able to muster some with the vision of you before me.”

“I do not believe you desire me before you for patriotic inspiration.”

“You could always try,” Grantaire replies breathlessly, the desire in his eyes apparent even to Enjolras, who has spent so much time ignoring it that the action was as natural as breathing. “Lost causes are your specialty, yes?”

Enjolras' voice turns cold, “There is very little in you to muster that is not wine and carnal desire. Neither of which are useful to our cause. My intentions are pure, I am doing this to renew our faith in the revolution, I am shouldering my friends’ doubts so they can go on with clear hearts. I only seek to restore spirits and repay them for the passion they have shown facing down our enemy.”

Grantaire replies swiftly with narrowed eyes and a tone that nearly matches Enjolras’ own, “It is time to stop deluding yourself that this is only for the revolution,” He scoffs, “Stop lying to yourself that this is about usefulness and morale, and admit you are quieting a hunger inside of you that could not be reached except on your knees.”

Enjolras turns from Grantaire without replying, a red blush of shame glows on his face and his throat has become too thick for him to speak. He is suddenly aware that his trousers are soaked in mud from the knee down, his hair is in disarray, and his lips are buzzing with numbness. He knows there are streaks of white down his cheeks that he has no desire to wipe away, he knows that his friends have seen him with his lips around another man’s cock and finds he only wants to continue. Grantaire’s stare burns the most with his cruel candor, but he does not want the other to look away. He is humiliated, but wants more.

Grantaire’s words have shaken him and he is startled by the feeling in his heart that he is not doing this solely for France anymore. He takes a breath and reorients his mind to the task he started with (building morale, uplifting spirits, reassuring his friends), catching only the sudden tilt of a wine bottle in his peripheral as he turns away. There is a shattering of glass on wood immediately following it, but he does not look back, instead holding his head high as he walks, with determination evident in every step he takes, toward Feuilly.

Feuilly, whose eyes are not immediately on Enjolras as he kneels down in front of him, and instead fixed on a point behind him with a sympathetic frown. Enjolras waits until he has the other's attention before beginning, not willing to look behind and see the expression on Grantaire's face, which had surely caused the one on Feuilly's.

Then Feuilly looks down, smiling at him with bright eyes and Enjolras is relieved by the feel of warm, work calloused hands on his neck. He takes Feuilly into his mouth with pleasure, relishing the gasp the other man makes as he goes down. Enjolras groans as well when Feuilly pulls a little too hard at his hair, then smoothes it in apology.

“Sorry, my friend.”

Enjolras does not reply, only pushes Feuilly's legs further apart so he can reach more of him. He uses his hands for what he cannot fit in his mouth and Feuilly spends himself across Enjolras' cheek, dragging his thumb through it to slough most of it off. ‘This is for the revolution,’ Enjolras swiftly reminds himself as he rises to his feet, ‘To shoulder my friend’s doubts and take them into my body.’

Courfeyrac does not wait for Enjolras to kneel, but stands and greets him with a kiss on his mouth. It is short but firm, pulling at Enjolras' aching jaw, causing him to moan. Courfeyrac smirks and leads them both to the ground, spreading his legs so Enjolras can easily fit between them. Enjolras assumes the position he has been in many times this evening with an eagerness that makes his eyes glow and his breath hitch.

Putting his mouth on Courfeyrac feels intimate as well, but for different reasons than Combeferre's reverent tenderness. Courfeyrac is sensual and praises Enjolras with every breath, bringing him up every so often to kiss him again until Enjolras is anticipating the action. He feels like a well-looked after paramour rather than a commander ensuring morale, which surely is what his dear friend intended.

“You were perfect, so perfect,” Courfeyrac says softly into his ear after he has finished, while Enjolras is licking his lips clean of Courfeyrac’s spend, that Enjolras doubts even Feuilly could hear him. The praise rings in his ears, bouncing around and lighting up his brain in tiny pinpricks of sensation that Enjolras thinks he might grow lightheaded should he concentrate on it too much. Courfeyrac kisses Enjolras' glowing cheeks much like Combeferre did, chaste and lovingly, and sends him on his way toward Marius.

Marius holds Enjolras at bay with a steady hand on his shoulder and a haunted look in his eyes.

“May I?” He asks politely, holding up his handkerchief, “Instead, I’d like to…if you wouldn’t mind.”

Enjolras does not stop him as he takes the damp cloth and gently clean Enjolras' face until no trace of dirt and anything else remained. This will calm Marius, Enjolras thinks, it will make him feel better to have something to fix, to cleanse of his own. Marius is gentle as he does it, careful not to press too hard or pull at the skin, his fingers trace Enjolras’ chin and lips so lightly that it tickles. He lets out a huff of laughter when Enjolras squirms before stopping. Enjolras counts this tiny sound as the closest he is going to get to restoring Marius’ smile for the evening and does not press any further. Marius checks over his work with a faint smile, before looking once again to the sheet that covers Eponine's body on the ground. Enjolras does not smile back, but nods his head in thanks and moves on.

Enjolras could feel Grantaire watching him with dark, hopeful eyes ever since he continued his way around the circle, it was distracting, but easily ignored. After his dismissal of Grantaire earlier, Enjolras had made an effort to not think about him. To not turn the words he said over and over, till they swirled deep inside his veins like blood. There are revelations Enjolras has made about himself today that he does not want to think about at this moment, he surely did not want them spoken aloud by a second party. Enjolras has succeeded in keeping his mind blank while finishing his task, and now that his friends all look much less dour sitting on their barricade his thoughts once again start spinning.

They turn to Grantaire, and his words, his accusations. Had Grantaire said those things to wound? Had he spat those insults out in an effort to put an end to this revolution that he had been against from the beginning? Or has he been seeing something in Enjolras that has only been a glimmer in his subconscious, a misinterpreted desire that had gone ignored for too long? Had he said them because he was offering to indulge in Enjolras’ fantasies, as if he had a better understanding of them?

Enjolras’ eyes unwillingly seek out the spot where the other man had been sitting, but blinks in confusion when he finds it empty. He takes one last look around at his friends before heading into the battered walls of the Corinthe, where Grantaire has surely gone in an attempt to find more wine.

Indeed the other man is there, huddled in a corner with a bottle nearly empty. Grantaire eyes him blearily when Enjolras sits down next to him on the floor, close enough that their shoulders are touching.

“I apologize for my words, they were spoken in…” Grantaire tips the bottle toward Enjolras, the remaining liquid sloshing audibly, “In drink, in anger, in pity, in despair, in l—”

“I accept,” Enjolras cuts him off quickly, before anything else can blubber its way out of his mouth, “I sought to restore mirth to my friends, to relieve them of their doubts. I refused you because—”

“You owe no explanation to me.”

“Because your doubts are all-consuming. You are made of doubts, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, turning to the side so he is crouching on his knees resolutely, “But it is not fair that you should not have the same chance to have them taken from you. Please undo your trousers.”

Grantaire does not move, instead stares in stunned silence with glassy eyes, though Enjolras knows he is searching for a response—something flippant and off-topic, something witty, something maudlin and long. Enjolras leans closer to him before that can happen and begins to undo Grantaire’s buttons himself. His fingers shake, which confuses Enjolras, as just a few minutes ago they had been doing the same thing, and to people he believed more deserving of his attention. Grantaire is hard, perhaps he has been hard the entire time, watching Enjolras on his knees, servicing his close friends, watching their come being spread upon his face.

He is clean now, his face tingles from when Marius had so carefully wiped him down. It was as if Enjolras had to be prepared for this, for the moment that he would offer up his body to Grantaire. Enjolras feels an emptiness inside himself, he did not accomplish what he set out to do. His friends’ doubts had been painted on his body when he had promised to take them into himself, his mission had been a failure. Grantaire would have to be the one to help him make it up now, removing Grantaire’s doubts would be the ultimate victory for France.

Enjolras’ eyes are half-lidded as he brings his mouth down upon Grantaire, letting out the now familiar pleased groan as he tastes the other man. Grantaire is unnaturally still and silent above him, but Enjolras does not give it any more thought. Saliva runs down the corner of his mouth and aids in his task, letting Grantaire slide more easily into him.

“You may,” Enjolras swallows heavily and feels around for Grantaire’s hand, bringing it to the top of his head, tracing his fingers along the other’s knuckles as he pulls away, “You may wind your hands in my hair.”

Grantaire obeys, but does it softly, as carefully as Combeferre did, but with a heavier weight that pushes Enjolras down further. Enjolras thinks that the added depth will give him a better chance to swallow Grantaire’s doubts and relaxes his throat in preparation. There is still the sting at the corner of his eyes, at the back of his throat as he goes down. There is the unvoiced wish that his friends’ eyes were upon him again, that it was mud he was leaning on rather than cold, hard wood. He suddenly wishes Marius had not cleaned him off, that he was still dirty, many wishes come to the forefront of his mind as he runs his tongue along Grantaire. That he was naked and bound, hands tied tightly behind his back as Grantaire pushes his head down and forces him to take it.

Enjolras pulls off of Grantaire with a gasp, coughing. That had been much for him, he realizes, a far too honest longing of the things he had previously only glimpsed in his dreams just moments before waking. They were easily dismissed as the random misfiring of synapses in the early morning hours, but, just now had been a deliberate fantasy conjured up by his waking mind.

“Enjolras, you do not need to force yourself if you do not wish—”

“Will you taste like wine when you come?” Enjolras wonders out loud, coughing as his voice catches, wet and rough. He fixes Grantaire with a stare, “Will your sense of self unravel as I drink your doubts from you?”

There is a moment of silence, “You said it yourself, I am made of doubts. Just as a child’s toy collapses when removed of its stuffing, perhaps my own body will do so as well. You’ll leave behind a husk of skin and an empty wine bottle.”

Enjolras’ lips are numb, they feel enlarged and clumsy upon his face, yet he can still manipulate them enough to say, “Or perhaps you will be born anew.”

“Then let us find out.”

\--

End

**Author's Note:**

> This was called 'Blowjobs for France' on my computer for the longest time.  
> Hope someone else got a kick out of it, even with the hella abrupt ending.💕


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